


Obviously

by FreyaBlackthorn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, At least try to fix it, Fix-It, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, They love each other so much, hope they're not out of character, kind of, they really need to talk, why do they never talk??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 09:55:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21336334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaBlackthorn/pseuds/FreyaBlackthorn
Summary: Sherlock and John, after the Eurus-crisis, try to get back to their life as it should be - but hidden feelings and unspoken words are boiling under the surface. Can love and friendship help them to overcome such disasters?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	Obviously

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! It's my first try ever to write in English - and of course, I did it in the name of the Sherlock fandom. Hope you won't find any grammar mistakes or huge errors - if you do, then tell me, and I try to fix it! :)  
(and please, don't hate me, I really stretched myself for it)  
I am so excited to present this little (I note, my first thing here ever posted) nothingness - I really hope some of you will enjoy this!  
I wasn't very imaginative with the title - but I adore they way Sherlock says it, so this story can get by with that title I think.

„I’m getting extremely impatient, you know.”

John was leaning to a stone-cold garage door, arms crossed, patience wearing thin on his face.

„I’ve heard it an hour ago, hardly a surprise” Sherlock murmured, maybe more to himself than to John, and still his gaze was fixed on the victim’s face. John gave a disapproving grunt.

“What the hell are we even doing here?! You solved this bloody case an our ago! We even reported everything to Greg!

“Greg?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about! Lestrade, you git!” John was practically shouting and stepped closer to the lying body on the ground, and to the consulting detective hovering above it. Sherlock was looking intently at the blackening scars, the colourless, distorted expression, and the venom-poisoned veins under the deadly pale skin. Well, it could be interesting for 10 minutes maybe. But for an hour?! It was just way too much for John. The sky got darker and darker, the wind blew under his jacket, its cold fingers ruffled his hair, harshly tickled his chest.

He’d had enough.

Obviously, Sherlock seemed kind of happy – that bizarre smile was sitting across his thin lips, his eyes were sparkling with great interest and amusement. And when he looked up, his expression made it perfectly clear that John’s irritation only fuelled his amusement.

“John, please. Keep your voice down, we are standing above a dead body. You’ve always complained about my lack of respect towards the victim of a…”

“I don’t care, dammit! Can we go home?”

The soft, silent plea is his eyes caught Sherlock off-guard. 

He deeply missed this look; after the Jump, he didn’t really get to see it in his blogger’s cold and empty eyes. He missed the mocking, the nicknames, the laughs they used to share so often. The naturality of their seemingly inconvenient relationship. 

He missed his best friend.

The friend he used to know by heart. He could predict his answers, even though the question wasn’t asked. He would wait for the carefully selected mocks being thrown at him by his John.

He knew him too well. And he… he needed him.

And after the Jump, everything felt strangely new and uncomfortable. They talked, but not like before. They teased each other with no heart in this faked mockery whatsoever. The laughs after their jokes would falter and disappear under death’s winged shadow.

In a sense, it was all Sherlock’s fault, he knew that.

And he wanted to make it right, to correct this huge error he didn’t dare to think he would ever cause.

He was never that important to someone that it would be insufferable for them if he’d lied to them. But John was different. Sherlock mattered to him, and he mattered to Sherlock.  
Sherlock made a huge effort to cover the whirlwind of emotions in his eyes; he smiled, smugly, although a bit weakly.

“We can go home, if you want”, was all he said.

John, who had been gathering breath for the forthcoming yells, stood, his mouth hanging open. The air left his lungs in a violent hiss.

“What?” He couldn’t register it was that easy. “You said… you said that we can go home, if I want to.”

“Why are you repeating me? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t.” John finally managed to get himself together. “So you say that we should head home. Now. When I’m _freezed_ to death, starving and bored as hell. And you say that _now,_ that it has been bloody obvious that we can go back to Baker Street.” He let out a rough, dry laugh, but his eyes were shining. “That’s brilliant. Amazing. You. _Git.”_  
Sherlock stood up, grinning happily as he soothed down the crease on his coat.

“You hadn’t told me you wanted to go home. You shall be more specific and not that cryptic about the wishes to be fulfilled, John.”

“I’m never cryptic. Weren’t my intentions obvious?”, he replied, smile spreading across his cold cheeks. And Sherlock thought – finally. An honest smile.

“They were, but then I didn’t want to risk this brilliant opportunity to examine a previously poisoned, then badly beaten body’s bruises post-mortem.

“Well, yes. That would have been a shame, really.”

They were now sitting in a cab, which gave them a bit of comfort and warmth after the chilly winds of London. Silence heavily fell on them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable nor awkward. It was a silence filled with unspoken words, with something like a promise lingering in the air.

The minutes passed and Sherlock grew a bit impatient; he wanted to shape his thoughts into words that would make sense, just to break the comfort before something else does. Cosiness crept under his skin, marching into his soul with great triumph, effortlessly. For some reason it made him fear of something.

He was afraid of what would come after the silence, what would break the newly found peace if not him. What will come next?

Usually he hated peace, he rushed to tear it down into little pieces. It reminded him of laziness and unpleasant waiting, what he would avoid at any cost. But he discovered another type of peace – a peace around John. It wasn’t lazy nor unpleasant, it felt natural and good. He sometimes didn’t like this feeling, because he grew fond of it, and he hated loving it.

He wasn’t like that sentimental and emotionally tormented before – and he feared this terrifying change, what would it bring, and what would it take away. Years before he had nothing to lose. Now he had fears and unwanted, useless, overflowing emotions which made him fear of a breaking of a simple silence.

“Are you…?” Sherlock was instantly thrown out of his mind palace by John’s voice, although this unfinished question was nothing more than a whisper.

John stared at him a little longer than one should expect, then turned in his seat to face the blurred streets behind the window pane.

“Finish the sentence, I’m listening”, Sherlock said, a bit more dryly than he actually wanted to. John looked a bit puzzled, like a deer in headlights.

“I… it’s nothing.” A little pause. “Just wanted to make sure… y’ know, that you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well…” John looked at him, carefully adjusting his facial expression to the situation; it moulded into a worried frown. “You are… whatever. Here.”

He handed him a tissue and Sherlock had to blink twice to process John’s outstretched hand. And when he blinked, he felt something wet on his cheeks, slowly making its way to the ground.

It can’t be. He can’t be. He can’t be _crying._

He didn’t say a word, just shook his head and the doctor quickly stuffed the tissue back into his pocket like nothing had happened.

Sherlock didn’t even acknowledge his own tears; there were just a few, they escaped his notice.

But John, from time to time, gave him side eye, and looked rather perplexed. John _saw._

_And he was the one who caused it._

The fire was lit, the sound of the cracking wood filled the air. Except for that, all was quiet.

For a while silence blanketed the two men sitting in front of the fire, staring into the dancing flames, avoiding to look at each other to prevent the walls from crumbling down on them.

Then Sherlock started to hum. 

John never heard him do that before. It was so unusual, so out of character that John was wondering what had made him act like this. He could only stare at his feet, darting his gaze away from the consuming flames that threatened him to eat him up alive.

He couldn’t look into the detective’s eyes because he was sure he would only find depthless pain and sorrow gleaming inside. The melody he was humming was so heart-breaking: it was a mixture of the waltz he composed for John and Mary’s wedding, intertwined with a sad lullaby that resonated deep in his bones and ears. When the melody reached its highest peak, the flames climbed up high in the pit, devouring everything in its wake, dancing wildly and vividly. Then Sherlock went silent, the flames went dormant, and it was achingly cold in the room.

John didn’t want to look up, and he couldn’t. Everything he held inside wanted to burst out of him. He felt lost, just like after the Jump, or after Mary’s betrayal.  
„John.”

He slowly raised his head up. He locked his gaze with Sherlock’s, feeling the tears running down on his cheeks.

He wasn’t ashamed of them. He saw just the same emotions inside the detective’s always cold eyes.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry. I apologise.”

John shrugged, while he managed to regain control over his sob.

“You cried first, you bastard. It’s my duty to follow you in every kinds of shit, isn’t it?”

“No.” Sherlock was deadly serious, John could tell. “No, it isn’t, and it shouldn’t be.”

“It kind of is now, though. You die, I die inside too. You return, I return too. You lead, I’ll follow. You solve crimes and I blog about it.”

“You stopped blogging.”

“I have nothing to say, actually.”

Sherlock stood up, anger like spring shot him up to his feet. The sudden fury confused John.

“You have! You have so many things you haven’t told, not to anyone. You… you are so quiet.”

“As I mentioned before, I have nothing to say.”

“That’s not true. You said that I return, and you return too; but here I am, and so are you, but you are farther from me than ever before. I lost you.”

“You lost me?! I was grieving you, Sherlock, for years! For nothing!”

John wasn’t even shouting. He had been carrying this burden for so long, he’d grown tired under it. And when he’d had the chance to put this weight down from his shoulders, he kept on carrying it.

“You see? You have so much to tell yet you choose to share only bits and pieces of it with me.”

“I honestly don’t want to talk about it. No, Sherlock”, he said when he saw Sherlock’s protesting hands raised by pure desperation. “Seriously. It’s over.”

Sherlock’s face was as blank as a sheet of paper when he sank back into his chair and looked into the dancing flames.

“Over.” He echoed the word, but it sounded empty. “You say it’s over.”

John was moved. He knew what Sherlock silently referred to – and as much as he wanted to tell something, to protest, to reassure him, he couldn’t, so he just looked at the detective and communicated everything through his eyes. Sherlock’s expression softened a little, because he understood.

They understood each other without words. The air changed, shifted back into something that resembled comfort and cosiness.

It was almost like _before._

“Just so you know” John broke the silence because there were things which were meant to be said out loud. “I forgave you. Really. I know you believe that I didn’t, but I did. A long time ago.” He smiled bitterly. “I beat the apology out of you in that horrible morgue.” His face hardened at his own words. “I’m sorry for… for _that._ That was… well, that was awful. From me. You didn’t deserve it. You’ve gone through tough shit as well, and I just made it far worse. I was selfish. You really didn’t deserve it.”

“Then, what do I deserve?”

John stood up from his chair and kneeled down next to his best friend.

“Someone who helps you through all of that. Someone who protects you.”

“Alone is what I have” Sherlock’s voice was trembling like his hands. “Alone protects me.”

“Not true. Remember?”

Sherlock didn’t say a word, only nodded.

“I’m here, Sherlock. And not going away again. I swear.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked with raw disbelief in his tone. “I hurt you more than I hurt anyone, I lied to you…”

“So you could save me!” John stated firmly, trapping Sherlock’s hand in his own. “I now understand, okay? We’ve hurt each other many times it’s no use bouncing on that. But I swear I will fix this. We will fix this. _Together._ Like before. And there is no why.” He squeezed his hand in his. “I don’t understand… oh my god, this sounds cheesy, but it’s… We… It had been years. Years passed and we never said out loud… the things we should have. And when you died, I thought there is no way to ease the pain. That the words are helplessly stuck inside, and there will never be a single soul on this Earth whom I could share those words with.”

“That’s why you stopped blogging.”

“Yes. I couldn’t bring myself to it. Because if I hadn’t been able to talk to my best friend for long years, why should I be bothered about the faceless crowd waiting for my words? I don’t care about entertaining the housewives with our stories. I only care about the man whom I shared those adventures with. And that man was lost to me.”

“I’m so sorry for making you unable to write. I know it means a lot to you.”

“You are seriously going to be apologizing about my writer’s block.” John pinched his nose and looked totally wrecked. “Oh, for god’s sake, Sherlock. You really don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“That I love you!” John shouted a bit frustrated, but somehow calmly, like he was preparing himself to say this sentence out loud for decades. “For all those years I did, but I was so bloody scared to tell you!”

“Wha…”

“And now you’re making this strange face, like you did when I told you that you are my best friend! Jesus, you moron. I’m going to punch you.”

“You…”

“Yes, I do. Love you. And stuff. Don’t look so amazed!” When there was still no reaction from Sherlock, John swiftly added: “You are my best friend, of course, I do.”

The following silence was awkward. Sherlock gaped like a fish, John looked relieved but a bit uncomfortable. Suddenly the look on Sherlock’s face darkened.

“You mean you love me like your best friend?”

John wanted to get up, with the determination of running away a hundred miles at least, but Sherlock’s firm grip in his wrist stopped him.

“John, answer me.”

“I honestly don’t understand this messed up friendship of ours, you know. I have zero idea what are we exactly, and if I want to be honest, I don’t even want to find out. The only thing I can safely admit is that I can’t lose you. I wouldn’t survive another Jump. Oh, come on, don’t just look at me with those alien eyes. Say something.”

Sherlock shook his head, his mouth only forming the words. Despite his muteness, his fingers never let go of John’s, holding them in their strong grip. The doctor smiled at his friend.

“Sentiment. Do I sense some sentiment here?”, he teased. “Sherlock, it hurts now, I can name those bones without feeling all of them at the same time.” Sherlock stared, and his grip loosened a bit. “So, can you add to the conversation now? You were the one demanding answers: now you are a mute but it’s your turn now. I don’t like rambling to myself, I feel like I’m an idiot.”

“Of course, you are an idiot, John” Sherlock snapped instantly, out of pure reflexes. “You are an idiot if you don’t know how I feel about this, about you. Is this still a question?”

“I’m an idiot, you never forget to remind me of that. So, enlighten me, great detective.”

“Enlighten _me, doctor.”_  
John raised his eyebrow in a questioning way.

“I can’t follow your flawless way of thinking.”

“Let me simplify. Do you love me?”

“I already confessed, like a virgin. Don’t humiliate me.”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes” John sighed “I do.”

“I do too.” After a short pause, he added: _“Obviously.”_

“Is it settled, then? Are we all right?”

“Of course, we are. We always have been.”

“Then come here, you bastard.”

“Why should I?” Sherlock asked, but he was already on his feet, taking a step toward a hysterically laughing John.

“You’re impossible. I want to hug you. I got so tired of arguing with you. Bet you enjoyed that, you drama queen.”

After a long minute, Sherlock murmured into John’s shoulder:

“Are you _that_ friendly to all of your friends?”

“Oh, shut up or I’ll let you go!”

Sherlock’s voice was deep with determination. “Never do that. Ever.”

“So you like that hugging thing after all, huh?”

“You should shut up, too.”


End file.
